


L'appel du Vide

by an_atlas_of_clouds



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, M/M, PTSD, Slow Burn, Stockholm Syndrome, ant man post credits scene, colorful foreign words and three-legged dogs, eh why not, for everyone who is dying to know what the hell bucky's been up to between movies, post-AoU, pre-ant man post credits scene, pretentious name-dropping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:54:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_atlas_of_clouds/pseuds/an_atlas_of_clouds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hesitantly, the Soldier reached out with his real hand and placed it on the dog’s head, where it remained still for several seconds.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had touched a living, breathing, happy thing for this long, but the recipient of the coveted touch couldn’t care less.  The dog’s tail whipped around dangerously.  It struck a metal trash can, causing the Winter Soldier to jump in alarm.  He scrambled back, dropping the wrappings and unsheathing the knife again.  Further proof that even assassins need sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bramboráky

Prague was known to be _so_ beautiful this time of year, as several nearby tourists trumpeted in stretched, blaring English. The Winter Soldier thought nothing of its beauty; running through his head were hiding places, makeshift weapons, sniper nests, potential targets.

He was getting jumpy; this was the longest he’d gone without being wiped. Memories came in fragments now: sticky, lazy heat, the smell of burnt popcorn, a chorus of shattering glass. He nearly gutted a pretty barista in Brioude when a drop of spilled coffee electrocuted him with untold phantom volts. Since he heard the word “Bucky” back in the middle of the empty flaming street, he carried the name around in his pocket, unsure whether or not he should use it. Waiting for permission.

He wasn’t sure if Rogers and Wilson were still looking for him; their last public sighting had been in Zurich, over five months ago. From what he had glimpsed on public televisions, they had been tied up with an intelligent, glorified toaster and a village in the sky, and the somewhat justified (yet wildly disproportional) repercussions of both: public outrages, billions in collateral, a call for global legislative action. The catastrophe had been a miracle in disguise, diverting all attention and manpower away from the hefty price on the Winter Soldier.

All he knew was that he had to keep running, keep turning. He hadn’t been given any further objectives, and, seeing as he had technically defected from his previous place of employment as it was burning and spitting and crashing into the Potomac, he fell back on his “Plan B”: a lucky habit derived from his escape route during one of his very first ops, an instinct that stayed with his body instead of rotting away with the rest of his mind. He’d stay in Prague for three days, then follow the Vltava River to its source in Ŝumava. From there he’d choose a train at random, and ride as a stowaway to the second to last stop of its line. He didn’t enjoy casting his plans too far forward, nor was it his first priority to analyze the many feelings brewing between his ears the same way he did with everyone else’s; his focus was always on the Right Now, and right now he needed to change his disguise and find a modest place to spend the night.

He bent his head and glanced by the unusually tanned tourist family, swooping down and snatching the father’s backpack as he knelt to take a picture of his wife and three daughters in front of the St. Vitus Cathedral. He was up and around the corner before they even noticed. He pulled from his prize a souvenir baseball cap and quickly switched out the battered, faded one that had comprised of most of his disguise since the Smithsonian. Also in the pack was a map of the city, which the Winter Soldier pulled out and unfolded, allowing him to hide his face whenever he passed an ATM or train station.

He was soon met with a chorus of shouting; another one of those disruptive music festivals was crowding up the square before him. He didn’t have quite the energy to feign enough excitement to pass through undetected, but he didn’t want to risk doubling back and running into the Californian family he had stolen from, undoubtedly accompanied by one or two policemen by now. Instead, he turned abruptly into a nearby alleyway, hoping it would spit him out a safe distance from all the activity.

The alley itself was narrow and unlit, the bricks slippery with grime, and immediately felt very, very wrong. The acute sensors in the prosthetic arm twitched, and the assassin’s entire upper body stiffened in anticipation.

The Winter Soldier whirled around, ready to release a hidden knife from his sleeve, and just barely managed to stop himself. Several feet away, a haggard dog was hobbling towards him. It struggled to coordinate its three legs, but its face was eager and excited to meet this New Friend. It let out a few helpful yips to let the Winter Soldier know that Yes, You Are The New Friend.

He stared at the dog for several seconds before continuing on his way, but winced when the dog started barking at him, begging him to Come Back. Accepting that trying to escape this inconvenience would only draw more attention to himself, he knelt and waited for the crippled thing to catch up. He withdrew an artfully-wrapped, half-eaten Bramboráky from the front pocket of the stolen backpack and held it out to the dog. Despite its excitement, it crept forward and tugged the potato pancakes cautiously from its Friend’s hand, sensing his wariness.

There was a time when the Winter Soldier didn’t mind being accompanied by the weak and broken. The dog’s dirty blond coat gave him a flash of another small fighter, lifetimes ago.

“ _Zavře ti to tlamu?_ ” He asked quietly as the dog licked the last of the grease from his cold metal fingers. “Will this shut you up?”

His voice was surprisingly gruff; he hadn’t spoken more than a couple sentences in the past few days. Polite waitresses and inquiring innkeepers aside, he was uncomfortable sharing anything other than niceties; each time he let slip a name, a place, an anecdote or excuse which may not even hold an ounce of truth, he felt like an ancient Bedouin water-skin, letting information stream out from leaks in his carefully-constructed sentences. Sooner or later he’d let something paramount slip, and he would be tracked down. Apprehended. Killed?

Disgraceful.

Hesitantly, the Soldier reached out with his real hand and placed it on the dog’s head, where it remained still for several seconds. He couldn’t remember the last time he had touched a living, breathing, happy thing for this long, but the recipient of the coveted touch couldn’t care less. The dog’s tail whipped around dangerously. It struck a metal trash can, causing the Winter Soldier to jump in alarm. He scrambled back, dropping the wrappings and unsheathing the knife again. Further proof that even assassins need sleep.

Then, from the space between the two strays bloomed a glorious idea. The Winter Soldier retrieved the Bramboráky wrappings and held it before the dog, teasing it, leading it, back the way he came. Once he was certain he was holding its attention, he turned and started back down the street, towards the Prague Castle Complex. He spotted the now disgruntled Californians complaining loudly to a barely-awake policewoman, but he reached down to pet the dog’s head again, and passed by without a second glance.

After passing through several large courtyards, the Winter Soldier and his dog came to the large bronze door of St. Vitus. Here he wouldn’t be bothered, at least until nightfall, when he could move more freely. He motioned for the dog to sit on the front steps, stay. It obeyed, yipping happily until he glared at it, accidentally making a shushing gesture he knew the dog wouldn’t understand. He pushed the door open and slid into the cool interior.

He was almost taken aback by its grandeur; nearly as large as a hangar, the cathedral’s luxurious Neo-Gothic ceiling seemed to extend into the sky, where golden angels glared down at him from their perches in the crisscrossing beams. A sharp contrast from the bustle and the noise, the cathedral hosted only a couple visitors, milling about in the corners, talking in respectfully hushed voices. The air itself seemed still. A dozen other doors on either side led who knows where.

After making mental checks to monitor the door activity and the balcony where the organ resided, the Winter Soldier cautiously made his way across the checkered floor. The pews running down the middle aisle were roped off, so he strolled near the western wall, where the afternoon sun bled through the stained glass windows, covering him in fragments of red, blue, orange, green, yellow, white, pink, purple. As he delved deeper into the silence the cacophony of color grew only louder.

At the very front of the cathedral was a colossal marble column, where fences of gold separated the living from the dead. On the other side of the column, the Winter Soldier knew, were the tombs.

There was only one other person back here, in the choir section. Standing before the respected remains of St. John of Nepomuk was a woman in a floral dress. Her red hair curled against her throat, leaving her shoulder blades bared. The fabric just barely concealed the garish scar of a months-old bullet wound.

With a glacial calm, she turned to face him. She looked lovely, for a woman he had tried to tear to shreds not too long ago. “James.”

The Winter Soldier winced inwardly. Another name. His pockets were getting heavier. “Natalia.” Where he pulled that name from, he would never know.

Her eyes flicked to the corner, where another couple announced their presence with a fluttering of camera shutters. She stepped closer to him, to add to the allusion that they had come here together. “Close. Nataša.”

He nodded, hiding a small twitch of the mouth.

She said nothing for a few seconds, then continued in Ukrainian, “You’re allowed to use your name, James. You’ve earned it.”

“Which one?”

“Which one feels right?”

Silence. “Nothing feels right. I don’t remember ever feeling right.”

“Well, the only direction you’re headed in is going to be a hell of a lot worse.”

“Thank you. Noted.”

“I mean it, James. Some of the worst memories will come back when you least expect it.” She stopped and lowered her voice as the other couple drew closer, but her eyes were locked on to his. “It’ll bring you to your knees. You won’t get all the good ones back.”

“Will I remember Rogers?”

“Even the deepest part of you couldn’t forget him. On the helicarrier. Whatever's left will catch up, eventually. Greater chance of success if you accept our help.”

“I’m fighting to remember you.”

Natalia blinked. James’ hand reached out, agonizingly slowly, and brushed her gleaming hair away from her collarbone. His thumb hovered over the silvery scar of the exit wound. “I did this to you, didn’t I? It was sloppy, but I remember the look on your face as you fell.” His hand sunk to her abdomen, pressing lightly against a blue hibiscus. “And here.” In the corner of his mind, James acknowledged that the tourist couple had noticed the display of intimacy, and miraculously disappeared. The rest of his fingers wrapped around her waist, holding her there, holding them both, anchoring them to the cold floor of this pinprick of a cathedral. “I remember...Yugoslavia, I believe. The air in the greenhouse…a wasp stung your knuckle, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.” He closed his eyes and begged that time would bend around them, just for a moment, so he could think. So he could grieve. “Your hair smells the same.”

_I should remember this. I should remember this._

He heard her sniff, but he opened his eyes to find that hers were dry and wide. She wasn’t looking him in the eyes anymore, but at the cheek right under his left eye. She was remembering, too.

Then she stepped back and breathed back into herself. “S.H.I.E.L.D. has splintered, so it’s too weak for our purposes. But if you sign a few papers, take a few tests – “

“No. If I go back there I’ll be shot on sight.”

“That’s not the real reason you keep running. What is it?” At his silence, “James, tell me what it is.” Patience, not exasperation.

“I’m a notorious assassin who’s suffered a mental break.”

“ _Don’t_. You don’t get to use that excuse anymore.” Natalia’s voice sunk dangerously low. “Rogers has driven himself mad trying to find you. You have a chance to make things right, and you’re going to run?” She casually moved to his other side, effectively blocking his only exit. “You won’t make it to the door.”

She looked as innocent as the flowers she wore, swinging her arms back and forth like an expectant child, but he knew without a doubt that she would burn St. Vitus to the ground before she’d let him slip away again.

“Come with me to Stark Tower.” She continued. “Banner would be more than happy to assemble a team of doctors–“

“No doctors. Never again.”

She exhaled. “Telepaths, then. Charles Xavier. I’ll be right there alongside you, if it comes to that. Only a handful of people would know that you’re even in New York. Good people.”

“You trust them?”

“I’ve given them plenty of reasons _not_ to trust me, but they’ve welcomed me with near-open arms. It has to be good enough, James. You can’t keep wandering around like a stray dog, or you’ll be put down like one.”

His mind raced a million miles away in the span of a second, weighing his options, his resources. He could have dwelled on the irony of the situation, of his former protégé locating him in a heartbeat, ages before any of the other Avengers would have gotten even a whiff of him, then dragging him back home like she was scraping a drunkard out of the gutter outside the local dive. But he just sighed, mustered up a good-natured smile (a ghost of his old sickening smirk), and nodded.

“Fine. Speaking of strays,” James said, remembering his other companion, “I have one condition.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to ao3 user Arlennil for the help with the Czech ~


	2. œuf

In the end, he couldn’t convince Natalia to follow his route through Ŝumava.  Apparently, just slapping on something expensive from Maison Kitsuné and lounging in a brightly-lit, highly exposed café in Bordeaux was her millennial substitute for the ( _perfectly sensible_ ) extraction plan they had devised together back when their dynamic was greatly reversed.

She had at least chosen a table in the corner, wordlessly guiding him to a seat where he could have a comprehensive view of sidewalk traffic, the café’s patrons, and all four ceiling-to-floor windows, all while keeping his back to the security camera behind the cashier.  She trusted him to be the lookout.  Was this a test?  The Dog was tied to the bike rack outside, and when it wasn’t licking the glass it was making many new Friends as they passed, earning many head-pats and scraps of food.

There was hardly a wrinkle in Natalia’s Koi Jacquard dress as she let out an effortless stream of French to the neatly-pressed waiter who had been hovering nearby since they had arrived: café au lait, aerian chouquettes, croissant au beurre, poached eggs (despite the eyebrow twitch from the waiter – apparently just the thought of savory œufs for the first meal of the day was enough to make any Frenchman vomit) and two bowls of fruit, whatever’s in season, whatever you got.

When the waiter drifted away, she made to reach across the table and touch James’s hand with her own, but hesitated.  She had never hesitated, before.

“Please stop treating me like a butterfly wing,” he muttered in Ukrainian.  “I’m far better looking.”

He winced at her coy smile.  That is not something the Soldier would say.

“Let’s try sticking to French or German, for now.”

“My German’s rusty.”

“No, it’s not.  You translated Nazi transmissions during the Second World War.”

His mind reeled for several moments, searching for a memory that wasn’t there.  When he couldn’t bring himself to think, he redirected his attention to the café.

A middle-aged woman, greying hair coiled over one shoulder, shivered in a beige woolen jumper.  She could only force down a slice of toast, and had gotten three refills of her espresso thus far.  She was trying to focus on her novel (Jeannette Walls’s _The Glass Castle_ , James noted when he caught a glimpse at the minimalist cover), but her eyes constantly trailed to her phone, which never once came to life.

A child, looking perfectly content sitting alone in the unforgiving urban bustle, spent a good fifteen minutes nibbling on a croissant.  Waiting for a parent?  Meeting up with a friend?  But the child simply sat in his passé green and yellow windbreaker, legs swinging, fingers tapping away on a handheld gaming console.  His shock of blond hair sent a pang through James’s stomach, something he hurriedly pushed away.  _Later, later._

He forced his eyes somewhere else, anywhere else, and accidentally made eye contact with another woman sitting over Natalia’s right shoulder.  He had noticed her warm chestnut skin in his peripheral, an occasional glance or nervous smile.  A burst of high-reaching dark curls, nondescript otherwise.  Simple leather jacket, riding boots, sipping only a latte (he had heard her accent when she ordered: little bit of London, little bit of something else, curving and deflective).  James analyzed her behavior as an ethologist examines a peacock’s mating dance; he supposed people of this modern age went more for the unshaven, mentally-unstable look, especially when wrapped up in some expensive, faceless casual wear. 

He got a flash of another mission, perhaps twenty years back? when he had been given instructions to seduce some Hungarian diplomat, then eliminate her in close quarters, where no one could hear her screams.  What was her name?  A sparkling glass of champagne shattering at her feet, white froth bubbling at her mouth, eyes widening (not in horror, but understanding, oh, of course, how silly of me to forget).  Ildi, Ilka, Irmuska?

He shoved some pastry in his mouth, hard swallow, chased it with coffee, he couldn’t taste any of it, he wanted to explode, where was his gun, what happened to his knives, _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,_ you’re my mission, busted lip, blackened eye,  _then finish it, then finish it, then finish it_  

Natalia’s voice floated back into his realm of perception, anchored by her fingers wrapped in a death lock around his wrist, no hesitation now that he was visibly shaking.  “A lot of your past missions will come back, with time, whether you like it or not.  When you get glimpses of the life you had before, it’s going to hurt.  But there are still traps inside your mind, James.  Kills you never made.  Triggers that could set your world on fire.”

“You’re making this sound more appealing by the second,” he gasped, metal fingers curling into his kneecap, crushing it underneath the table.  “Can’t wait to hear which halfway house you booked for me.  Delray Beach or Boca Raton?”

An exhale.  Barely detectable, but he knew her body well: she relaxed at the averted detonation.  It was never her eyes that gave it away, but her lips.  She leaned back, gently tore her croissant in half and dipped it in her coffee.  “Let’s finish our breakfast first.”


	3. Sfogliatelle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the letters you'll see below were a part of one of my old pieces, I Asked Why Men Died for Words, which i deleted because i hated it so goddamn much. on the other hand, The Best Game does still live, and is also referenced in this chapter (spin-the-bottle). go wild. by the way, the title is pronounced sfwoo-ya-tehlay ~

James learned too late that he should have appreciated their breakfast, because the pair spent the next four hours ducking and weaving throughout the city, taking what was possibly the most indirect (and logistically _infuriating_ ) route to Natalia’s 'secret rendezvous' with one of her ‘friends’ who promised to get them out of the country under the radar, the details of which she happily kept to herself.  What if they got separated, he had asked.  How would I know where to go?  But she just smiled her Fake Couple Smile and looped her arm through his.  Somehow, his escapade in Prague had leaked onto the Internet (he suspected those damn tourists who had seen them near the tombs in St. Vitus), which meant his train plan was kaput anyway.  The Dog jaunted alongside them (or something close to a jaunt, considering its missing leg), just happy to be included.

“There’s something I need you to see,” Natalia said suddenly, her free hand dipping into her satchel for a manila envelope.  “We were saving these for when you were in a controlled environment, but –“

“But you are the controlled environment.” He finished.  He was acutely aware of the beads of sweat forming at his brow and on the back of his neck, but he couldn’t remove the leather jacket that concealed his metal arm, whose exposed fingers glinted in the afternoon sun.  Neither of them would prove to be very wieldy if they were ambushed, especially since James had insisted on keeping the Dog on a makeshift leash of rope.  But even the Soldier doubted they’d be taken out on a busy street in broad daylight.

She withdrew a crumpled piece of paper.  “You wrote it in Azzano, probably around 1943.  It was confiscated from your belongings shortly after you were taken into Nazi custody.  When they first began the testing.  Captain Rogers was the one who rescued you.”

“A little late, don’t you think?”  He disentangled his arm and gingerly unfolded the fragile aged stationary, lest it disintegrate completely between his cold and calloused fingers.  The upper-right hand corner was obscured by what appeared to be a cigarette burn, and several words had been hastily redacted.

 

_Steve,_

_Hope you haven’t duped yourself into enlisting for the tenth goddamn time.  I can’t ~~chase your ass~~ babysit you over here in Europe, too.  It definitely ain’t like a back alley here.  You’ll just have to sit like a good boy and wait ‘till I get home._

_Say what you want about Italy, but the gals here are out of this world.  I’ve been talking to Concetta and Domenicka(?), I think.  I asked D. how to spell her name but she just smiled and said something in Italian.  Probably about how stunning my eyes looked against these hospital bedsheets.  Nurses, both of them.  Rubble from a Kraut’s mortar blindsides me a couple days back, I wake up in a bed in Motta di Livenza to find this one dabbing at my head and the other one trying to feed me some kind of flaky layered pastry (please for the love of God don’t ask me to spell it).  I’ve been telling them all about you, Stevie, trying to convince them to slip some headshots into my bandages that I could send back to you._

_Christ, I miss you, Steve.  Being woken up by that blessed breeze on Sunday morning, looking over and seeing you perched on the windowsill, sketching whatever goddamned bird caught your eye.  Now, I wake up to blood in my mouth and smoke in my lungs.  I can’t describe what I’m feeling for you, to the point where I almost wish I couldn’t feel it at all.  Thinking about you lifts me out of this shithole just long enough to get a blink of sleep, some nights.  But I don’t want you here with me.  I nearly cried when I tried to picture you wearing an oversized helmet and hauling an M1. ~~The first time I shot a man I saw your face, not his.~~_

_We’re gonna try and take Azzano in little under three hours now; I’m writing this heartfelt memoir as my ass grows numb on an old log outside the Colonel’s tent.  I can hear them jabbering away about us possibly facing some HYDRA troops.  I’ve heard a bit about that deranged Nazi sect here and there, we all have, just crude jokes and ghost stories.  There’s actually a campfire a little ways away, and I can hear Stratton trying to scare the rookies with some shit about blue light._

_It probably sounds like I’m having a blast over here, and I’ll tell you, it is different.  The food is almost better than what we could afford back in Brooklyn, except for the nights you and I scraped up enough to bring home a steak from Ottomanelli’s._

_Truthfully, Steve, it’s hell.  We all try to avoid talking about it because it only makes it worse, stuck out where we are, but you’ve always been good with calming me down.  Tell me about the weather, the Giants, how you’ve been getting by.  Please tell me you’ve tried to take at least three dames on a date since I left.  Hopefully not all at once, my God, but someone.  My hands’ve been shaking nonstop whenever they aren’t holding a gun; they were trembling so bad just now I dropped my cig and burnt a hole right through the paper, hope you don’t mind.  The only thing that’s cheered me up is remembering that one and only time I got you to play spin-the-bottle._

_Expect another letter very soon, hopefully with pictures; the angel with green eyes is Concetta._

Lovingly _yours,_

_Bucky_

 

Natalia’s eyes had not left James’s face as he read, gauging his reaction. “Not every part of you is evil, James.”

He laughed bitterly.  “Oh?  And how’s that?  I don’t even remember this.”

She hesitated ( _that’s twice now today_ ) before taking out a folded cloth napkin.

“Have we stooped to petty theft?”  He began, but quickly held his tongue when he realized his mistake.  The patterns bordering the linen napkin were beyond outdated, nothing at all like the café’s polyester.  Also, it was almost completely covered in words written in an unsteady hand.

“No.  You wrote this one at a railroad station in Prague, 1957.  You knew I was trying to track you down.”

“Did I crack and rewrite _The Communist Manifesto_ from memory?”

“Think, James.  Prague.”

He thought.  Oh.  “Is this how you knew how to find me this time?  Is this how I knew to stay?”

“’Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.’”

“Who said that, your priest?”

“Einstein.”

 

_Ankaa,_

_I am not allowed to know you, and yet I feel compelled to write to you.  Isn’t this what lovers do?  Should I tell you of the soap I’ve used, the clouds I’ve counted, the people I’ve butchered?  I’m due back to the Red Room in four hundred and eighty-nine minutes.  If you are reading this, then I have already forgotten you.  Before I leave, I would like to confess my sins:_

_Sometimes, in the tunnel down which the mind meanders before surrendering to sleep, my senses start to bleed together: the storm of bullets and thunder of war.  Reds seeping from the tears in the fabric of the skin, heavy and sweet.  Faces of the dead, sisters.  Daisies, lilies, edelweiss.  Babies squirming, blue light, blue eyes, snow that burns the skin.  I do not know how old I am, but it does not matter.  Knowing Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 as readily as I know knives.  My finger caressing the trigger, then falling into the darkness that birthed our universe.  I can see everything, Natalia, can’t you?_

_The Red Room claims it knows nothing of doubt, nor of longing, love, or laughter.  So why do I feel these things, pinpricks behind my eyeballs where I think no one can see?_

_I remember how many seconds (one hundred and ninety-four) it took for your heartbeat to match mine, as we lay in that empty room, tracing constellations on our calves and collarbones.  Is this love damned?_

_After we’ve torn down the world, only the stars will stay the same, so I let them guide me.  I do not have time to regret, nor do I want to.  No matter who I once was, the person I am now has fallen in love with Creation.  Is this love damned?_

_I have only one task for you from this day onward, lyubov moya.  Never let me become anything other than this._

 

After a beat, James let out a low whistle.  “I should’ve started my own church.  There’s enough alliteration here to pass as the same sensual rhetoric you’d hear at any evangelical service.”

Natalia looked disappointed in his answer.  It showed in a twitch of the bow of her lip as her eyes blinked somewhere else, away from him.

“I’m sorry,” he added quietly.  “I don’t remember writing this one either.”

“Apparently not.  But the church comment was good.  It’s a progress of its own.”  Her pace had not slowed, and she strode briskly ahead through the public garden they had wandered (purposefully) into even as James bent his head against the wind to reread the napkin.  The Dog lingered, distracted by some other animal behind them on the sidewalk, so he had to tug harder to get it to follow.  It approached a large fountain instead, dipping its front paws over the marble lip and lapping at the cold translucent surface.

_as we lay in that empty room, tracing constellations on our calves and collarbones_

“Natalia.”

“Hm?”

“How much of it do you remember?”

“Everything.”

James turned away, searching the skyline for the right words.  He could have gone off script, he could have reached for her hand and stopped the game.  Yes, I will go with you, but we will go to the mountains where no one can see us tracing our constellations, where I can empty my pockets and lay all my names out on the floor, where I can slow down and relearn the intimacy we once had, like remembering the steps to the intricate dance we taught ourselves so many years ago, perpetually waltzing through our cold glass castle.

Later, he would mentally flog himself for ignoring his Dog.  He had silenced its warning barks, waving it away as a world-class felon sauntered up behind them, unhindered in the vacant garden. 

Now, while James was contemplating his many layers of ineptitude, he suddenly found himself falling face first to the pavement, paralyzed by some unseen Taser, the Dog’s leash yanked from his grip.  He heard its furious barking, followed by a loud thump and a distressed whine.  He felt a small circular EMP disable his metal arm, which kept him from tearing the perpetrator to shreds, and it fell limp at his side.  He rolled onto his back, nose gushing, to find the chestnut-skinned girl from the café staring down at him, no longer shy in her smiles.

“Did you think we’d forget about our most valued asset, Sergeant Barnes?”

Barnes was hindered by the dead weight of the arm he cradled against his chest, so he just spat blood from his mouth and grinned back.  “Did you not get my letter of resignation?  What ever happened to cutting off a head and another taking its place?”

She dropped all light-hearted pretense and slowly drew a revolver from the depths of her leather overcoat. “Your orders are clear.  You will return with me to be wiped.  Properly, this time, and everything you are will perish in the service of a higher purpose.  Or your body can perish, right here, on this walkway, where your Dog will lap up your blood until I shoot it as well.”

There was a half-second of shock (during which he ensured that the EMP had worn off; he certainly, _definitely_ did not consider her offer, not for a moment) before he kicked back into action.  The Soldier threw James Barnes away and shirked his encumbering jacket, allowing his weaponized arm to immediately strike the woman across the face except she was not there, she was underneath, right leg thrust out at his ankles and he stumbled again.  Sure, he was able to whack the revolver from the agent’s loosened grip, but the Soldier still stumbled in his assault.  Disgraceful.

He cursed Natalia repeatedly for taking his weapons and for refusing to disclose the details of her elusive 'plan'.  By the way, where the hell did she go?  Was nobody else seeing this?

Ah, there she is, of course.  His beautiful red-haired terror materialized onto the agent’s shoulders, garrote out and legs crossed across the other woman’s chest, trying her very best to slit her throat in one of Bordeaux’s highest-rated public parks.  The blond boy from the café flashed across the Soldier’s mind’s eye, but he had the wrong face.

The agent’s curls bounced as she bent her knees and leaped backwards off her feet, allowing herself to land on top of Natalia and slip out from underneath the sharpened wire.  The Soldier rose to assist his comrade, but instead got another taste of the riding boot.

“ _I need a weapon,_ ” the Soldier snarled to Natalia in Ukrainian, spitting a tooth into the fountain on his right.  He praised all the deities of the world when she did not delay in whipping out a semi-auto pistol from Gods-know-where and sliding it across the pavement, between the agent’s legs, into his outstretched hand. Hadn't this been the agent's gun to begin with? It did not matter. Firm grip, slide to advance the first shell, aim, remove safety, breathe in, out, hold, fire.

The agent could have fallen so easily, so painlessly.  How dare she not drop like a marionette whose strings have been cut?  Instead it was messy, half-assed, sloppy for a brawl between three of some of the most dangerous people in the Northern Hemisphere.  The bullet grazed the HYDRA agent’s scalp, releasing a spray of blood.  Painful, but nothing fatal.  She staggered, her eyes suddenly desperate for her victims’ clemency.

The Soldier aimed again, and Natalia almost stopped him with a word.

“Wait.”

But the Soldier does not wait.

He fired again, and the other woman was, at last, felled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ankaa | brightest star in the Phoenix constellation  
> lyubov moya | my noble attempt at "my love" in Ukrainian
> 
> ~if my translations are embarrassingly incorrect, let me know!~


	4. Mûre

  Syracuse.  They’re at the state fair in Syracuse watching the Horse Pull in 1939.  Steve is fascinated by the enormous heavyweight-class horses; his book is brimming with sketches of how their muscles ripple in the September sun, how they stomp and dig their back legs into the dirt, how the teams of two struggle against their harnesses as they pull sleds nearly twice their own weight down the length of the track, pale pink tongues lolling out of their mouths.  He even draws the men who shout to the horses from the sidelines whenever they take off too early.

Bucky hadn’t even tried to get Steve to come to the fair with him under the pretense of a double date.  “Not very many city girls enjoy getting dirty, at least in this sense of the word,” he had said, throwing an arm around his best friend’s shoulder, pulling him closer.  “We can make our own fun, Stevie.”

The smell of hay and dirt, dust swirling up into their faces, the unprecedented softness of a freshly-sheared sheep under his fingers, piglets with clumsy steps and writhing tails.  Bucky is uncharacteristically quiet as they meander past the stalls, and he knows that Steve notices the change.

“What’s up, Buck?” the smaller man asks, eventually closing the cover of his sketchbook and sticking his pencil behind his ear.  “Am I boring you already?”

Bucky gives him a weary smile, reaching over and plucking the pencil from its niche so he can twirl it between his fingers.  “I don’t know.  Something feels different about today.  Like a sunset that lasts a minute too long.”

“Poetic.” Steve replies dryly, and Bucky can see he’s resisting the urge to grab the pencil back from him and copy down his words.  Bucky rolls his eyes.

He can’t keep the grin off his face when Steve pays more attention to a rabbit than the gorgeous woman cradling it.  An adolescent girl in trousers perches above her livestock’s enclosure, watching passerby as they admire the spiraling horns on her prized goat.  The young men’s fingers brush as they pick at fried dough, and the propellers from the airshow rumble overhead.  Several minutes of the evening are spent throwing handfuls of cedar shavings, and Steve even manages to jump up and stuff some down the back of Bucky’s shirt.  On the way out, they hit up the farmer’s market for onions, squash, fingerling potatoes, cheese and blackberry jam.  Bucky hopes to make a nice dinner for the pair of them.  Maybe he’ll tell Steve he loves him.  It’s an idle thought, almost routine from having been turned over in his head so many times.

When they get home that night, they’re stopped by their landlord on the second landing.  A brusque, stocky man, Mr. Harvey’s the distant type who gruffly accepts the month’s rent (after counting it in front of them, red face puffing away on a cigar) before retreating to his empty apartment.  But tonight, there is no tobacco between his teeth, and he looks oddly incomplete without it.

“Boys,” he asks, hesitant concern slowing his words, “how old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” Bucky replies, arms laden with fresh produce. “Steve’s twenty-one.”

The older man closes his eyes and shakes his head, mumbling something under his breath.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Damn shame, son.  You’re both well ripe to serve, though I don’t know about the look of Rogers here.”

“What do you mean?”

Harvey’s thick fingers are clasping the railing, knuckles going white, and his eyes fix on a point above both of their heads.  “You know how Hitler invaded Poland a few days back?”  He doesn’t wait for their nods of affirmation.  “Just heard Chamberlain’s ultimatum speech.  Britain and France’ve declared war on the bastard.  I was here the first time around, boys.  Where they go, we go.”

Something inside Bucky deflates in resignation when sees Steve’s bony fingers tighten around the jar of blackberry jam.  “Are we going to war, sir?”

What is it they say about best laid plans?

*

The Soldier shuddered out of that memory and fell into another.  He remembered even further back: a neighbor, what was her name, who wore her hair teased up, always held an unlit match between her teeth as she cooked.  Bucky had developed a childhood crush on her pretty heart-shaped face, and was always delighted when she brought home defective tennis rackets from the factory at which she worked.  She had owned a high-strung collie named Angel who always snapped at a young Bucky’s ankles, who had once chased him all the way back to his own front porch, where his mother would beat it away with her cinnamon broom.  The neighbor woman had kicked her husband out sometime during Bucky’s middle school years (igniting a saucy neighborhood scandal) and started dating what the other schoolkids labeled “white trash.” 

Bucky came to resent her as he grew older, especially after the death of his mother, especially on nights when he and his sisters went without a meal and he would look up through her kitchen window to see her plating turkey and corn to a heavyset man and his ungrateful brats, especially because she had closed her door to Bucky with the magic words, “I don’t run an orphanage, sweetie”.  By then, he had made it his habit to throw rabbit pellets on her front porch whenever he passed, where they’d expand and reek in the summer rain.

*

The dreamy filter warps again as the Soldier wakes to the sound of beeping machines and the morning sun creeping up his arm.  His most immediate thought is Panic.  They’ve found me, they’ve imprisoned me, they’re going to tear me from myself again.

But he turns his head and it’s just Steve sitting there, sketchbook balanced on his crossed legs.  The man smiles, still as gentle and crooked as Bucky remembers, despite the evident upgrade in physique.  “Was wondering when you were gonna wake up.”

Bucky just stares, incredulous.  He runs his tongue over his chapped lips and opens his mouth but he can’t form any words.  What the hell is he supposed to say?

 Steve chuckles, averting his eyes for a moment so his fingers can dismiss a notification on his phone.  “Come on, bud.  We can go get a drink or something, talk it out.”

This time, Bucky laughs with him.  He’s killed hundreds, and plans on killing hundreds more.  During waking hours, he can reach no farther than his own name, bloody fists pounding against that invisible barrier.  But when he can sleep, the life that was stolen from him visits in a barrage of mismatched memories: shards of clinking dog tags, speeding trains, and a woman in a red dress.  Sure, let’s go get a drink. 

But he can still smell his mother's cinnamon.

The sun is getting too bright.  He shuts his eyes again.

*

The real world rushed back with a wave of chilled air and the smell of mildew.  The Soldier cleared his throat with a hacking cough, simultaneously registering sore spots down the length of his prone form.  New wounds, healing slowly, bones cracking, unwashed skin and hair, expensive clothing drenched in sweat and torn in several places.  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the small room; he was bundled up in one corner, the Dog (miraculously alive, he noted, with no small relief) in another, both of them resting and recovering.

Natalia’s voice swam over.  “You were dreaming, weren’t you?  That’s good.  That’s progress.”

He turned his head to look at her.  _Progress._ She looked like shit.  Half of her hair was drawn away from her face, revealing her own hard-won, purpling bruises.  She had changed out of her dress entirely, opting for the classic black jumpsuit and modern, rechargeable weapons.  She was kneeling before him, resting her weight on her heels.  Her hands were busy checking his bandages and running a wet cloth over his forehead.  Her eyes were unreadable; did her thoughts match his own?

Dreaming had been notoriously discouraged by the Red Room, for obvious reasons.  Unconscious thoughts and desires easily lead to conscious insubordination.  He couldn’t remember the last time sleep had been anything but a couple hours of murky darkness; why had he suddenly been given so much?

For a brief second, he hoped that the Red Room was rewarding him for his work, that they really did want him back.  He pushed the lie away, stuffing it in the back of his mind, but with great effort.

 “You want to tell me what it was about?”

His chest was tight again.  He could only force out one word, strangled and heavy with emotions he did not know he still had. “Steve.”  The important bits were already slipping away, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of something missed, like bile in his throat.

She offered him a travel-sized bottle of vodka, likely something she had used to sterilize his injuries.  “You might want a sip.”

He held the bottle up for inspection with his metal arm.  “This is a potentially harmful stereotype of the –“

“Just drink it, James.”

So he did.  Probably unwise to drink on the job, but he knew full well how the serum in his blood would dampen the alcohol’s effects.

“After our confrontation with the agent, you came down with some kind of illness.  The last few hours for you must have been fever dreams.”

“Did she poison me during the fight?  Maybe her boots were coated in a toxin?”  He thought back to breakfast, to the shifty-eyed waiter.  “Something slipped in our coffee, perhaps?”

Natalia waited a breath.  “I can’t be sure.  I don’t have enough of the right resources to be sure of anything right now.”

A large figure filled the remaining corner of the tiny room; he remained silent during the course of the exchange, but something about his appearance struck a chord in James: immense, muscled, long dirty-blond hair with matching scruff, but tender cobalt eyes, watching him with an experienced steadiness.  A modern Viking, right down to the pulsating hammer poking out of the man’s ill-fitting civilian clothes.  James attempted to rise to address the interloper, but Natalia’s hand was firm on his chest, pushing him back into the nest of blankets.

“Anyway,” She continued in Ukrainian, “Change of plans.  We won’t be going to Stark Tower just yet.”

“Don’t tell me we’ve been uninvited.”

“Not exactly.  There’s something else brewing among the Avengers community.  There’s rumor going around of legislation that might cost, or save, countless lives.  Stark’s backing it, whatever it is.  His place might not be the safest, right now.”  At his look, she added, “We just need somewhere for you to lay low and get your bearings before we throw you back in the fray.”

“Delray Beach or Boca Raton?”

A dangerous smile.  “How does Asgard sound?”


	5. Hot Pocket

D.C. was full of joggers this time of morning.  They were such a standard sight among the arrogant foodies and unbroken interns and politically-polarized millennials that hardly anyone batted an eye as Captain America and the Falcon trotted along the Potomac, though they went unhindered largely due to their astute disguise of sweats and baseball caps.

They rarely talked during their drills, though there was always a faint air of competition between the two men; whenever Wilson seemed to get a lead on Rogers, the blond would stretch the extra foot without breaking a sweat, earning a single frustrated huff from the man behind him before the silence resumed.  They passed the usual sights: a legion of double-decker tour buses so crammed that the passengers on the top level were ducking to avoid tree branches, hungover skateboarders frowning at the elderly’s tango lessons that was crowding up their spot in the Eastern Market, and numerous construction projects, some of which initiated to repair recent damage, others that had been stagnant for decades.  Serene marble angels tucked into the façade of the archaic government buildings kept a watchful eye over Constitution Avenue as it suffused with the daily flow of camera-toting tourists making their rounds of the Smithsonians.

Half an hour later, Sam Wilson practically fell into his apartment, immediately bracing his hands against his knees to catch his breath and kick off his sneakers.  Steve followed, gently closing the front door behind him and untying his laces.  He stood and examined the collection of photographs over the Demilune where Sam usually dumped his keys and junk mail.  He had seen these pictures a hundred times; he’d memorized the faces of the fatigued men in front of an arid riverbed, of Sam’s mother’s birthday candles, of a fat old tabby he’d forgotten the name of.  Steve usually stayed in the foyer just long enough for Sam to cool down, not wanting to “show off with your goddamn mountebank metabolism,” as Sam had pointed out, with air quotes.

His friend’s voice came from the kitchen, as well as the sound of the refrigerator door and sink faucet.  “When’s Nat gonna get back, man?  It’s been her turn in Words with Friends for almost two weeks now.”

Steve shook his head, smiling as he met him at the kitchen table.  “That’s your excuse, huh?  Just admit it.  You miss her.”

Sam gently placed the carton of orange juice on the cherry hardwood and dabbed at his forehead with a damp washcloth before crossing his arms.  “Do I need to remind you, _again,_ of what happened to me while you were off getting lost in Best Buy?”

Steve rolled his eyes to the ceiling and sighed in defeat, throwing up his hands in a faux melodramatic gesture.  “Please, enlighten me.  I’m hazy on the details.”

“I got my ass whooped by an ant.”  Sam pressed his forefinger into the table to emphasize his point.  “A _dude_ dressed as an _ant._   That guy made it in and out of our new semi-secret base with a signal decoy prototype like it was nothing.  If Nat had been there, she would’ve scared the shit out of him.  He just tried to shake my hand before blowing my flight pack to hell.”

“I still think we should recruit him.”

“Shut your fucking mouth, Rogers.”

*

The remainder of the morning was spent sorting through mountains of S.H.I.E.L.D. papers between Hot Pocket breaks.  Personnel files, ballistics and serology reports, little plastic baggies containing identical shell casings with different dates and locations written in sharpie, pixelated black-and-white surveillance photos, café receipts, news articles dating back to the ‘70s were all mapped out across the living room floor. 

There was one file that sat in the armchair in the corner whose contents remained untouched unless their consultation was absolutely needed.  Inside was a picture of the Bucky that Steve had known, and it still pained him to look at it for too long.

Although there was a potential lead coming out of Prague, their investigation in Zurich had been a complete bust, so the pair was determined to achieve one-hundred percent certainty on Bucky’s location before expending any more outside resources. 

Time was running short, especially because Steve had a hearing scheduled up on the Hill later in the afternoon; the liaison hadn’t been terribly specific on what it would contain, but he imagined he would be questioned on 1. The Winter Soldier; 2. Sokovia; 3. Stark’s actions in Sokovia; 4. The Winter Soldier’s whereabouts; 5. The Black Widow’s whereabouts; 6. His relationship to the Winter Soldier; and 7. How much federal funding he’s been spending on locating the Winter Soldier, among other things.

A glance from Sam told him that he had noticed Steve’s mental list-making, an anxiety-inducing habit that Sam often defused with a distraction.  “Tell me about him again.”

Steve’s grip on a map of the Vltava River slackened a little, and he self-consciously corrected his posture.  “I don’t know how much more I _can_ tell you, Sam.”

His friend thought for a moment, shifting his weight.  “Alright, why do we need to be the ones to find him?  Why won’t you ask Stark for some of his Big Brother tracking devices, or one of the guys up at Xavier’s Institute to play mind-sweeper?”

“Because I really don’t want to get involved with Stark, seeing as he’s neck-deep in the legal ramifications of Ultron and all the collateral damage he caused in Seoul and Johannesburg.  And we don’t need any telepaths poking and prodding at Bucky, pretending they know what’s best.  When we locate him, I need to be the one to help him recover.  Everyone else in the world has a good reason to want to put him down for what he’s done.  He needs someone he can trust.”

“And that’s you?”

Steve furrowed his brow.  He was getting frustrated.  “Yes, that’s me.  I can’t remember much of my life before Bucky was in it.  I’m the only person in the world who knows who he really is.  The only one left, anyway.”

He could tell Sam wanted pry him further, but he didn’t.  He just stood to refill his coffee in the kitchen.

When he returned, Steve said, “If you’re gonna ask, just ask.”

Sam thought carefully about the phrasing of his question.  “Look, I get things were different way back when, but just how close were the two of you?”

Steve went silent, his face strangely blank.  “How are you supposed to answer that kind of question?” He said quietly.

“Be straight with me, Steve,” Sam replied, “Or, you know…” he shrugged suggestively. 

Steve kept his eyes on the map.  “I’m not sure I can explain it,” he said, thumb tracing the complex river system. “Closer than brothers, but thrown into each other’s lives like it was never meant to happen any other way.  Like you and your wingman.  If you found out tomorrow that Riley had never died in that explosion, that he had just been kept as a P.O.W. in Wakanda and was being released, wouldn’t you be the first one to meet him on the tarmac?”  He paused, knowing he’d overstepped.  But he was relieved when Sam nodded briefly before changing the subject.  He’d let this drop, for now.

“What if Natasha’s found him?”

Steve met his eyes, puzzled.  “They don’t know each other, not from what she’s told me.  The only thing he’s given her is two bullet holes.”

“I’m not saying they’re pen pals.  I’m saying she might know how to find him.  She’s the one who ‘called in that favor’ in Kiev to get us that file.” He nodded at the manila folder in the armchair.  “Put two and two together.  She has a shady Russian past, the Winter Soldier is the personification of a shady Russian past.  She disappears off the radar, and just like that, most of our leads on him go cold.”

“She’s probably out making new covers, like she said.  Nat doesn’t want to admit that she’s vulnerable, but I know she is, especially after everything that’s happened.”

Sam gave him a look over his mug as he took a sip. 

“She’d tell me, Sam.”  He didn’t break eye contact, but uncertainty began brewing in his gut.  “She’d tell me.”

In the back of Steve’s mind were Natasha’s own words, the concealed warning she had given him with empty eyes.

_Truth is a matter of circumstance, it’s not all things to all people all the time.  And neither am I._

He made sure Sam didn’t notice how his hands began to shake as they swept the numerous reports into more organized piles before dragging the furniture back where it belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let’s all operate under the assumption that the whole clusterfuck with brucenat in age of ultron was nat’s attempt at creating a new cover. it wasn’t real. none of it was real,
> 
> also, this fic starts roughly around mid-august 2015, right after the events of ant-man, and will run up to the start of the civil war arc


	6. Nectar of the Gods

Leaving the planet had been pretty high on Natasha’s bucket list, right next to piloting an MQ9 Reaper Drone and getting a Brazilian.

James had not taken the trip through the wormhole well; as soon as the world materialized around them, he fell to his knees, metal arm bracing him against the floor as the other clutched his stomach.  Natasha was beginning to believe that he was more injured than he was letting on.  The Dog seemed to think the same; it buried its muzzle under his arm and licked feebly at his hand.  James did not swat it away.

She looked up at the famous Heimdall, who was standing erect and still as a statue in the center of the domed room, with a sense of naive fascination.  The ancient Asgardian’s chrome headpiece rose like horns, drawing attention to his matching shoulder pads and gauntlets.  In his hands he held a great sword, more for decoration than practicality, Nat thought, though she could be wrong.  A chill ran down her neck when his yellow eyes met her own, but she did not let it show on her face.  He carried the jaded tranquility of a thousand-year-old creature, appraising her as if he knew every thought in her head.  She tested this theory by summoning a mental image of Clint in a speedo, and was rewarded with the slightest wince from the statue.

Her mission was always her priority, which meant her childlike awe and wonder had to take a backseat.  She couldn’t help but wonder how Stark or Banner would react to a place like this.  For her, though, a new world meant new mannerisms to study, new social and intonation cues to mimic, new weapons to recognize and categorize, new technology to utilize at a moment’s notice.  All while making sure James didn’t rip someone’s beating heart from their chest. 

She dared herself to look down, where through the light-streaked glass bridge, she could see the water spilling over the edge of the world and into the void.  The sight filled her with an otherworldly sense of calm.  The only time she felt such a thing were in moments that seemed frozen and folding in on themselves: concluding a grand pas de deux in the arms of a faceless man on the stage of the Bolshoi Theatre; falling to the pavement with a hole in her shoulder and life gushing out; standing in a bustling station where the trains are always leaving, with a ruined napkin between her fingers.

 “We are grateful for your assistance, Heimdall.” Thor said from beside her, inclining his head to his compatriot.  She knew he was only speaking in English for her and James’s benefit.  “What news from the Nine Realms?”

“Lady Sif and Hogun are making progress in Svartalfheim, but -”  He broke off midsentence, distracted eyes locked onto something only he could see.  “I apologize, Your Highness.  The threat you disclosed with me is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.”

Thor’s shoulders stiffened.  “Understood.  We will discuss this later.  But first,” he turned to gleam at his guests, a certain giddiness overtaking his face, “I believe refreshments for you and your Dog are in order.”

He tapped Mjölnir to his chest, and his civilian clothes dissolved away into his familiar battle dress, red cape unfurling down over the reflective chainmail.

They started the long trek down the Bifrost.  James’s face paled at the sight of the mile-long bridge before him.

“I’ll carry you over the threshold, if you wish.”  Natasha whispered in his ear.  He muttered some indistinct swearword before bending over to recover his breath.

“What did you and Heimdall mean by ‘threat’?” She then asked Thor. “Has Asgard been compromised?” 

He looked down at her, pale eyebrows raised, then furrowed.  “Ah.  The last time we were together, Lady Natasha, I was overcome with a vision of the Infinity Stones, the concentrations of ancient cosmic power I have discussed before in council with the Avengers.  I have reason to believe they are behind the recent chaos involving the attack on New York and the creation of the Vision.  Jane was infected by one of the Stones briefly, as well.”

She could think of no adequate reply.  She just nodded.

He smiled sadly.  “I understand your concern.  Earth has, fortunately, endured the brunt of the Stones’ wrath.  Now I fear that Thanos, a being of immense power, will tear his way across the Nine Realms to retrieve them.  He will be assuaged by nothing else.”

“This is shaping up to be a wonderful week.”

“For the time being, the investigation into the vision is mine alone.  Do not fret.  We are here now for your friend.”  He leaned past her to check on James, who was still clutching his stomach and sweating profusely. 

“Why did you let us come here, Thor?”  James asked.  His eyes were on the stars above, where two massive planets loomed behind the taffy-colored clouds.  It was odd that their gravity did not seem to affect Asgard’s orbit.

“I know of your crimes, James Barnes.  But all of us here at Asgard are guilty of such atrocities.  War is what we are bred for.  You are no different.  Also, a small group of our scientists begrudgingly concede that they would not pass up the opportunity to study human physiology.  And I must admit that few of my Midgardian friends have had the luxury to visit my homeworld.”

Only Natasha noticed how James’s mouth pressed into a grim line at the word ‘scientists’.  “Do you two have each other on speed dial?”  He asked, smirking to hide the fear written plainly on his face.

She spoke quickly, cutting across Thor’s confused look.  “Thor was on Earth under the radar to visit his companion, Doctor Foster.  She’s an astrophysicist based in Virginia.  I trailed her to him, and convinced the God of Thunder that he owed me a favor.”

“Indeed,” Thor grumbled, dropping his royal Shakespearean front entirely.  “I was present during the conflict with Ultron, and the reaction is no less than what I expected.  Once the situation regarding your dilemma was explained at length to me, I agreed with Natasha that this would be the best place for you.”

After several minutes of catching up between Natasha and Thor, the trio reached the end of the bridge, and they found themselves at the entrance to Asgard Proper.

Thor’s tales of glorious battle and drunken festivities (which, despite his excitement, felt distantly artificial in the way most fairytales do) could not compare to what she was seeing now.

It was an asteroid, Natasha realized with a start.  Asgard resided on an asteroid, dormant within a cloud of cosmic matter, with the kingdom itself sitting atop a large basin at the foot of several snow-capped mountains.  Shimmering columns and spires of silver rose from between the trees, with what she assumed to be golden Valhalla peaking at the center.  Advanced technology blended seamlessly with nature in a way that even she could’ve mistaken for magic.

Men and women alike were clothed in flowing robes of muted maroon, blue, emerald, black trimmed with gold.  Noisy bangles hummed on the bared wrists and ankles of those not already bedecked in centurionesque armor.  Long hair was done up in elaborate twists, braids adorned with ribbons woven between the strands that reached down their necks and snaked around their arms.  Everyone wore leather-like belts that housed handsome steel daggers, swords, and maces.  She glanced at James, whose weary eyes analyzed his surroundings just as hungrily as hers.  He drew closer to her as violet-eyed children hid behind large ferns to get a closer look at his arm.  Those in close proximity turned a curious eye towards the war-torn aliens.

A man with well-trimmed blond hair greeted them at the end of the Bifrost, looking slightly out of breath but still undeniably handsome with his rumpled cotton shirt and crooked nose.  At his waist was a comically flimsy fencing sabre.  His gaze lingered on Natasha’s red hair before turning to address Thor.

“At last, mighty Thor, you grace us with your presence!” the man said, descending into a droll curtsy.  “The court has been in tatters without your tales of debauchery to entertain them.  One question, though,” he added in a quieter voice, “Is it me, or does Lady Jane look a touch different to you?”

Thor laughed, a booming, joyous sound that Natasha had never heard before.  He clasped a large hand on her shoulder, and she had to dig her heels into the ground to steady herself.  “Greetings, Fandral.  I am afraid proper introductions are yet to be made.  This is Lady Natasha, a remarkable warrior with whom I have had the privilege of sharing many Midgardian battlefields.  Accompanying her are friends Sir Barnes and the Dog.”

Natasha nodded, and James followed her lead.  His breathing was shallow, and most of his hair was sticking to his damp skin, but he still managed a respectful salute for a stranger.

Fandral’s eyes widened at the Dog, who limped forward with large brown eyes.  For the first time, it seemed hesitant in its approach, paws shaking and tail between its legs.  Asgard and its inhabitants must smell wildly different than the streets of Prague.  But Fandral smiled even wider and dropped to one knee, removing a leather glove with his teeth and extending it for the Dog to sniff.  “A beautiful creature, no doubt.  I like this one.  Much smaller than the ones Lady Sif and I had to defeat recently in Muspelheim.  And significantly less on fire.”

The Dog grinned to lick the man’s fingers, and its carefree panting resumed.

Thor made a humming noise, apparently struck by an idea.  “Heimdall tells me that Lady Sif and Hogun are still in Svartalfheim.  Do you intend to rejoin them?”

“’Fraid not.”  He shook back one of his sleeves to reveal his wound, dried blood surrounding a faded, months-old scar.  “Damn elf’s poison-tipped arrow nipped me right in the wrist.  Healing Room patched me right up, but I have the feeling that the battle will be long finished by the time I reach the end of the Bifrost from whence you came.”

“Then perhaps you could keep an eye on the Dog while I take them to the Healing Room myself?”

“I would love nothing more.” Fandral replied, winking at Natasha before standing to take the leash from James.  His bravado faltered slightly when the other man refused to loosen his clenched fist, his face pure murder.  “Have faith in me, James Barnes.  The Dog will be welcomed as a king in the halls of Valhalla.”

James flinched as if the Asgardian’s words had slapped him, and he put the leash in his hands without meeting his eyes.

Fandral continued like nothing had happened, inclining his head in Thor’s direction before disappearing back into the crowd, with the Dog prancing close behind.

James’s eyes filled with dismay at the sight, and Natasha had to tug gently on his wrist to get him to follow.  He spoke little for the remainder of their tour.

*

“Is the ‘Healing Room’ really the name you chose for your warriors of legend?”

“Oh, of course not.  Its proper name is beyond human pronunciation.”

They followed Thor to a dock, where they boarded a skiff further into the city.  Fifteen minutes of sickening swaying on the hover vehicle spit them out next to a terrace built into a cliff overlooking the Asgardian Palace, with the lonely Bifrost in the distance beyond the cascade.

Up close, the architecture of the Healing Room’s courtyard reminded her of Florence; crumbling pillars and railings of sandstone, standing firm against the waves of time.  An unfamiliar Asgardian woman appeared from within the building, inky black robes flapping in the brutal wind.  Her olive skin was unscarred, but she too was armed, more with medicine satchels than steel.

She and Thor had a brief exchange in a foreign tongue.  She seemed apprehensive about their presence.  Thor had told Natasha about how Asgard was still recovering from the invasion of the Dark Elves, so it was only right the woman was wary of outsiders.

At last, the woman stepped closer, drawing back her hood to reveal flowing white hair.  “I am Ylva.  It seems I have the privilege to be the first to welcome you to Asgard.”

“Thank you for doing this,” Natasha replied over the gale. “Lead the way.”

“Do not thank me yet.”  Then she turned and opened the French doors, motioning for them to follow.  The deeper the group traveled into the mountain, the less Natasha was convinced that Thor was bringing them to the standard Healing Room.  The winding, dripping tunnels narrowed to the point where they were forced to continue in single file.  Natalia put herself between Ylva and James, who at one point reached for her hand in the near-darkness.  She took it and squeezed, but he did not squeeze back.

The passageway eventually opened to a cavern, well-lit by sconces of orange flame.  In the center stood a table with a lit surface, bordered by orange holographic projectors.  A group of doctors and scientists, blending together into a horde of emerald cloaks, were examining the instruments, and looked up in unison at the humans’ entrance.  James stopped dead at the sight, his breathing becoming heavier and more pained.  These triggers, while unavoidable, were still quite the obstacle to surmount.

“It does not matter who you are.  Right now, you are safe, and I will not leave your side.”  She whispered in Ukrainian, her lips an inch from his ear.  He closed his eyes and nodded.

Thor gently pulled her aside as James limped to the table, flanked by Ylva and her assistants.  He crossed his arms over his chest.  “I am afraid I must ask, Natasha.  Why are you keeping James Barnes’s location from Rogers?  Heimdall told me the man worries endlessly about him.”

“Because I’ve been where James is.  Right now, he is the Winter Soldier.  Killing is all he knows.  Rogers can help him remember Bucky, but before we get to Bucky, we have to break through to James.  And I’m better equipped to deal with what it takes to get there.  James might not remember our time together, but I’ve seen him in pain before.  Crushing, agonizing pain.  I can handle it.  I’m not entirely sure Rogers can.”

He remained silent a moment longer, scrutinizing her.  At last, he conceded.  “Very well.  I defer to your judgement on this matter.”  He made to turn away, then added, “I remember when you refused to test your worthiness against Mjölnir in Stark’s tower.  Were you afraid the hammer would not budge?  Or was it the opposite?”

She did not answer him, for she did not know the answer herself.


	7. Nelumbo nucifera

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delayed update! i've been busy with school, but i'll try to update on a weekly basis :)

 

Ylva peered at the humans with icy blue eyes.  She regarded Thor with the standard reverence, but her uncertainty was still just as evident.  “After _numerous_ setbacks, Eir and I have developed a prototype of the Aether that once plagued Jane Foster, as I’m sure you know.  Its properties are similar in that they allow for organic matter regeneration, as well as abstract mapping of the conscious mind.”  She glanced at James’s arm.  “The problem is that the original substance displayed sentience, latching onto its host and draining its life-force as a parasite would its prey.”  

“While what we intend to use on your friend is strictly under our control, allowing them to target specific areas of the mind,” Thor added brightly, then nodded to Ylva.  “Correct?”

The woman’s eyes flashed with irritation.  “Let us hope so.  For our first session, we will inject a minimal dose to see how his system reacts to the Aether.  We will be using the Soul Forge to monitor his vitals.”

“Definitely Delray Beach.” James muttered as he positioned himself on the table’s luminescent surface.  His touch triggered the holographic model of his body, which hovered three feet from his face.  The orange body glowed red in several places, with auditory notifications alerting the doctors to his numerous injuries.  What surprised Natasha, though, was the image’s brain: a live, three-dimensional EEG detailed which parts were overactive (amygdala) or had next to no activity at all (hippocampus, ventromedial prefrontal cortex).  The holograph had no left arm.  Natasha could feel his anxiety coiling within him, threatening to snap.

She stood as close to the table as the assistants would allow and addressed Ylva in a brisk tone.  “Is there a way for you to heal him first?  His injuries could be a distraction.”

Ylva nodded, happy to get to work.  “Of course.”  She snapped for several of her assistants before throwing back her sleeves and summoning the Soul Forge’s interface.

It appeared to be some kind of quantum-field generator.  She couldn’t help but smile to herself knowing that she was here and not Stark or Banner.  She sorely missed Clint, though.  He had been to her what she was now to James.  Except Clint had been better with the jokes.

She stiffened at Thor’s warm hand on her shoulder.  “Natasha, you too are injured.  Would you like for me to have you healed, as well?”

She crossed her arms and shook her head, resisting the temptation to brush her fingers over the purpling skin on her sternum and neck.  “No, I’m staying.” She replied, head spinning from the effort.  Thor’s comment had made her realize how shallow her own breathing had been.  She hadn’t cracked a rib, had she?

“Yes, two broken ribs,” Ylva said from far away, eyes narrowing at the interface.  “Multiple stress fractures, some of them healed, but poorly.  The oldest is around five months old, at my best estimate.  We’ll have to reset them.  Also picking up some shrapnel embedded in the external oblique muscle of his lower abdomen, fairly shallow.”

“His body produces a superhuman serum,” Natasha asked. “Why didn’t he heal correctly?”

Ylva exhaled through her nose.  “I cannot be sure.  Either the serum itself was not designed to last this long, or the serum did its work to the best of its limited ability.  The skin did heal over the shrapnel, but failed to remove the shrapnel itself.”  She tapped more buttons, targeting his injuries on the hologram positioned above his body.  “Would you like for us to replace his missing arm?”

A moment passed before Natasha realized what Ylva was asking.  “That’s his decision.”  She looked to James.  “Would you want that?”  But his eyes were somewhere else, and he shuddered out curses through clenched teeth.  The metal limb was familiar to the Winter Soldier, and was familiar to James.  One thing at a time.  “Leave it, for now.”

An assistant reached out with a long arm to remove what was left of the patient’s tattered clothing, leaving only his undergarments for modesty.  Natasha’s throat tightened at the sight of his broken body.  God, she was glad Steve wasn’t here for this.  Sure, the man was strong, but just the sight of Bucky had set something off in Steve the first time around.  He wouldn’t be in the proper position to make these decisions.  Her case was similar, of course, but conflict of interest applied to everyone but her.

“Initiating quantum-field generator.”

The light that shined from above reminded her of the New Age light meditation nonsense that she had overheard Stark raving against once, which might not be entirely nonsense after all.  After an anesthetic was injected, the Winter Soldier’s body jerked sharply as his bones cracked back into place.  He clenched his fists and groaned as shrapnel fought its way out of his stomach.  The smell of burning fat permeated the room as a chemical sprayed on the man’s skin instantly closed his wounds with a layer of fresh cells.

James shuddered and moaned with relief as the pain fled from his body.  Natasha watched his lips as they mouthed something unintelligible.

No time to waste.  Asgardians on all sides glanced at each other as Ylva plunged a gloved hand into a canister flushed with a billowing dark matter.  Another assistant withdrew a mint-like leaf from his satchel, broke it, and held it under James’s nose.  The sharp scent permeated throughout the Healing Room, where it mingled with the frankincense and lotus incense that wafted from the thuribles hanging from many of the doctors’ belts.

“Inserting Aether.”  She scooped a handful of the container’s contents.  Despite its gaseous form, the smoking Aether clung to Ylva’s hand, winding through her fingers and tracing the dip of her palm.  Natasha let meaningless reassurances slip out her mouth in Ukrainian as many hands tightened on James’s limbs, pinning him down; he started writhing and grunting in panic, _No doctors, never again,_ she closed her eyes in a second of weakness as Ylva held her hand to James’s face, and the black smoke poured from her fingertips into his mouth, up his nose, into his ears.

James immediately went limp, head rolling back and thudding onto the table.  His eyes were like pitch, and something within tugged on his fingers, like the strings of a puppet, like a parasite.  Natasha was reminded of a scene from _The Exorcist._  

Ylva tested the waters.  “Can you hear my voice?”

_The blood of the martyrs commands you._

“Yes,” he gasped.

“You are on Asgard.”

“Yes.”

“What is your name?”

“The asset.”

She waited for James to elaborate, but the asset does not speak without first being spoken to. “That is not who you are.  What is your name?”

He had been using the name James, he had let Natasha call him James, but James hadn’t meant anything to him.  He had slapped it on like a name tag, and now Ylva was ripping it off.

“I don’t…” His words stopped but his mouth kept moving, like the decapitated head of Queen Mary.  Natasha knew this feeling, this wordless struggle between the one holding down the plastic bag and the one struggling beneath it.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

“ _No!_ ” James roared and struck out with his metal arm, clearing a path of shocked scientists as he rolled off the table and landed on the floor, hard.  The Asgardians, warriors before anything else, dropped their notes and reached for their weapons.

Ylva unsheathed her own dagger, raising the steel in defense as she retreated back behind the table.

_You are guilty before the whole human race._

“No!” Natasha shouted, throwing up her hands to ward off the attackers.  Thor obeyed, and hastily ordered the doctors to do the same.

She met James in the center of the room.  He was trembling as he stood, and greasy hair hid his face.  “Traitor.” He hissed through his teeth.

Even in this defunct and fitful form, she knew his body well: the faint click of his arm’s machinery, the repositioning of his right elbow as he tucked his limbs closer to his torso, how his abdominal muscles clenched and the way his toes curled in preparation for the lunge.  Natasha shifted in kind.  His crazed attack missed her by inches, and his fist closed on nothing but air.

He quickly countered by swinging around to gain momentum, too quickly for her to dodge completely.  His metal fist struck home, with her lower arm, raised over her face, absorbing most of the impact.  She bit back a scream as something important shattered, most likely the ulna.  She rolled back to gain some ground, shaking away the stars in her vision.  No big deal.  She’d fought with less.  Luckily, her earlier wardrobe change hadn’t been for taste alone; she used her functioning arm to free one of her taser batons from its holster at her belt.  She ignored both Thor’s yell and the voice in her head that reprimanded her for chickening out and resorting to a one-hit weapon, instead zeroing in on the rise and fall of James’s chest.  She twirled her baton once, energized by the hum of power as her suit’s piping glowed blue with electricity.

“Back down, Soldier,” she said, trying to appeal to his protocol, “This is my only warning.”

He growled in outrage and lunged again, going for her throat.  Tactless and slapdash, but it worked to Natasha’s advantage.  She skipped a step out of his reach at the last second, and brought the baton down on his exposed wrist.

She winced at James’s stifled howl as the electricity paralyzed his muscles and disabled his metal arm.  The current wasn’t as powerful as what HYDRA had used to wipe him, but it was evident that it still hurt like a bitch. She knew beforehand that most of his pain would be psychological.  He fell to his knees, then on his back.  His eyes rolled back into his head, and he gasped in panic until he was choking on a white froth.

Natasha rushed forward and rolled him on his side to clear his airway, then remained over him as he slipped in and out of consciousness.  While she waited for the effects to wear off, those who had not left the room crept closer, reaching surreptitiously for their notes and Natasha’s baton, which had rolled several feet away.  Thor, alarmed by the extent of James’s traumatic response, crossed the room in three strides to stand at her shoulder with his hands behind his back, casually sweeping his cape to hide Mjölnir.

“I am sorry, Natasha.  For you and your friend.  We had no way of knowing the effects of the Aether on his mind.  Do you still believe we should continue with this course of action?”

“I don’t know.”  The adrenaline from the fight was wearing off, and her broken bones screamed with each breath.  “I’ll get back to you.”

“I understand.”  She could hear the shame in his voice, but she refused to take her eyes off James, who was beginning to stir.  “Ylva and I shall wait by the entrance.  When he can stand, we will move you both to a place of rest.”

She thanked him with a nod, and he soon left her range of vision.  A minute later, James reentered the world with an ugly cough, and Natasha wiped away a dribble of blood that had bubbled at the corner of his mouth.

“Steve?”  James asked, voice heavy but unflinching at her touch. 

She held his chin lightly between her thumb and forefinger. “I will not be Steve for you.  But I will always be your Natalia.”

_It is the Lord who expels you._

“Natalia.” He whispered.  His eyes met hers as if truly seeing her for the first time.  His shaking flesh-and-blood hand grasped hers as he regained control of his body, and he brought it to his lips.  He kissed the knuckle where the wasp had stung all those decades ago.  “ _Lyubov moya_.”

He was coming back, but she was slipping away.  There were many questions to be answered when she woke, even more to be asked, but she didn’t care.  She let her face crack into a smile.  “Hello, James.”

“James,” he repeated, the darkness in his eyes washed out by his tears, “James, James, my name is James.”  He curled his charred skin against his chest as his senses flooded back to him, and he started to sob.  “James…James…”

 “No problem,” she said quietly, before slumping over onto the floor beside him.


	8. Sodium chloride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so listen. when i said i'd update every week, that was Before i realized how hard it is to write a good chapter during the school year. from now on, i'll update whenever i can, but i promise i won't abandon you <3

Drowning at sea.  That was Natasha’s worst fear.  Miles from land without footing or weapons or a way to the tantalizing clear sky above, no way to use her training except to tread water and gasp helplessly for air.  Salt water burning her eyes, scrubbing her throat raw, being tossed about relentlessly as the thrashing waves fold over on top of her, jagged rocks scraping the bottoms of her feet.  Crashing, then silence.

So when she woke with the scent of salt in her nose, her eyes shot open, and her body went taut with fear.  But she was on land, and she was alive.  Other minor details came to her attention within the same moment: that _was_ water she was hearing, but it was farther away, and sounded more like the waterfalls of Asgard; a sniff confirmed that the frankincense still clung to her skin; her fingers went to her throat, and she discovered that the purple pain was gone.  She and James appeared to have been brought to a different chamber within the mountain.  She was still wearing clothes.  James had been given new clothes, lighter and looser-fitting than his modified straitjacket.  Stalactites hung from the ceiling, affirming their presence with quiet drips.

She was acutely aware of eyes on her, and the eyes belonged to James, who was watching her from an arm’s reach away.  Ylva was there too, her colorless hair bound tighter than before, and was busy applying a mossy salve to his burned wrist.  She held his injured arm delicately, and her eyes flicked periodically from him to the stationary metal arm, which rested, detached from James, on the bench beside them.

It was strange, seeing how the Winter Soldier held himself without his greatest boon.  Natasha had encountered him in this state a handful of times, but it had not been like this.  His eyes were vacant, even more so than before.  He did not resist Ylva’s commands as she prodded him up and down, ensuring that the fresh wounds had been healed, and he obediently spooned leafy greens and unfamiliar concoctions down his throat. 

“Where are we?”  Natasha asked to break the silence, casually swinging her legs ‘round so she was facing the Asgardian, but James blanched at her tone.

“One of our salt rooms within the mountain,” Ylva sighed, keeping her eyes on her moving fingers. “The naturally-occurring minerals in the walls and floor help to draw any excess Aether from his system.  It should also clear your sinuses.”

“Where’s Thor?”

“He has been called elsewhere.  A more important matter has come to his attention.”

“ _A more important matter?_ ”

“I believe the salt should have calmed you, Lady Natasha.”

She _was_ calm, but her crossed arms and unblinking stare must’ve been more than a little off-putting.  “You want something that’ll calm me down?  I think it’s called 75 milligrams of Chlorpromazine.  Do something other than push buttons and toss salad.”

Ylva wiped her hands on her apron and stood.  She was unruffled, but tense.  “You assume because I have a profession that does not involve constant carnage that I must have no knowledge of the world’s events, much less of your _predicament_.”  She did not need the dagger at her side; her sharpest blade was the ice in her eyes.  “You _assume_ that I have survived recent events unscathed, that the success of the Aether is all that matters to me.  Think outside of yourself, human, and trust what I am telling you: You are safe here until I say that you are not.”

Her voice had filled the chamber, leaving no room for Natasha’s petty arguments.  Know when you are beaten.  “You’re right.  I’m sorry.”

Ylva was quiet for a moment before she nodded to James.  “His wrist should heal soon.  Minor burns such as these are inconsequential to Asgardian herbs, so we did not see a reason to put him back in the Soul Forge just yet.  You, however, needed a bit more care, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

And she had gotten _so_ used to breathing with the punctured lung.  She'd felt like a paper doll, twisted and torn beyond repair, wearing whatever face she'd decided to draw on that morning.  “Thank you for all that you’ve done for us.  I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

Ylva stepped back and looked to the stalactites above.  “Please remember that we are not keeping you here, Lady Natasha.  You are free to leave whenever you like.  You know the way out.  But, as a doctor, I recommend you stay until you are certain that Sir Barnes is stable, something I believe only you can surmise.”

Natasha nodded.  “And once he is?”

“I will send for Thor, but I cannot promise that his return shall be hastened by much.  He’s the one who wanted you in here in the first place.”  With this, the woman left under the arched entryway, white hair flashing as she promptly turned into a shadowy tunnel unlit by the orange sconces.

*

In the silence that followed, Natasha positioned herself so she was facing James; the posture of a good listener, but the anticipation of an orderly.  “How are you feeling?”

He took a deep breath and shrugged.  He had been given a role to play, before.  Now he had to write the lines himself, word by word.

She frowned.  “So, after teaming up with your former protégé, reading your own letters, and answering to ‘James’ for three straight days, it just took a smack upside the head to make you remember?”

Her partner’s eyebrows drew together, as if only just realizing this puzzling fact himself.  He scratched self-consciously at his scruffy facial hair, which was starting to curl over into a beard.  “I never forgot,” he whispered, shocked.  “I just…it was like there was a veil over my eyes.  I knew what things were supposed to look like, what James was supposed to sound like, but it was never right.  I knew all the languages, but I didn’t know why.”

It couldn’t possibly be this easy.  “Do you remember Steve?”

His face twisted like he had tasted something sour.  “He’s still hazy.  But I remember the weight of his name in my head.”

She shifted closer.  “Remember that the Aether isn’t a cure-all.  It’s just meant to clear away enough of the fog and disable enough of the triggers for you to be able to sort through the shit yourself.”  Careful.  “So…what is your name?”

“The truth is very deep inside me, and I’m digging with my hands,” He smiled at her, sallow face stretching over frayed nerves.  “But I have reason to believe that my name is James Buchanan Barnes.”

Something loosened within her; his voice was chipping away at the resin she had encased herself in long ago.  “A good place to start,” Natasha said, one hand grasping his, feeling relaxed in a way she had nearly forgotten. “Ready to do it all again?”

**Author's Note:**

> Credit to ao3 user Arlennil for the help with the Czech ~


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